


break my body, hold my bones

by IrisParry



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Battle, light on plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-30
Updated: 2012-06-30
Packaged: 2017-11-08 22:14:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/448118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrisParry/pseuds/IrisParry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robb's limbs may be weary and aching but his blood sings in his veins, as loud and insistent as the drunken chorus drifting up from the main camp, long after the end of the fighting. </p><p>Back in Winterfell, they'd sworn ... this ... would stop. The price of discovery is that much higher now, and tents don't come with locked doors. Safe behind solid oak they'd made the vow, then promptly broke it half a hundred ways on the floor of Robb's chambers - and against the wall, on the furs before the fire, and then slow and sleepy in bed the next morning, telling themselves one last time would put the matter to rest properly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	break my body, hold my bones

**Author's Note:**

> AU in which Jon didn't go to the Wall. Set after the Whispering Wood but, really, apart from there having been a battle there's no mention of actual plot. Unbeta-ed, any mistakes my very own.
> 
> Started for the [gameofships](http://gameofships.livejournal.com/) porn battle (which was fantastic, check it out) but life stuff got in the way and I didn't finish remotely in time. Prompts were _service - post-battle - abandon - need - stripped - vow - want_.
> 
> Title from the Pixies song Break My Body. Also at my [livejournal](http://irisparry.livejournal.com/).

Robb stands as still as he can, lets Jon's careful fingers work at the buckles of the plate around his chest and arms. His brother is already down to his ringmail and leathers, still filthy from the field, dark streaks dried across his serious face. Robb had found Jon waiting when he got back to his tent, pacing restlessly, and just the sight of him was enough to have Robb half-hard. Jon hadn't said a word: he took a long look, his brow creased and his lips parted, then went to Robb and set about removing his armour. 

Robb's limbs may be weary and aching but his blood sings in his veins, as loud and insistent as the drunken chorus drifting up from the main camp, long after the end of the fighting. He wants to scream until his voice gives out, run until his legs fall from under him, or get back on his horse and find someone else to fucking hit. So this is what men mean when they talk about the battle fever, the burning sense of something like elation, the high that lasts for hours. Robb had thought they were exaggerating, or that maybe some of them just liked killing a bit too much.

When Jon steps behind Robb to undo the fastenings of the mailshirt he stands close, fingertips brushing the back of Robb's neck. Robb's hands clench into fists and he feels Jon's breath quicken, warm against his skin.

Back in Winterfell, they'd sworn ... this ... would stop. The price of discovery is that much higher now, and tents don't come with locked doors. Safe behind solid oak they'd made the vow, then promptly broke it half a hundred ways on the floor of Robb's chambers - and against the wall, on the furs before the fire, and then slow and sleepy in bed the next morning, telling themselves one last time would put the matter to rest properly. That _was_ the last time, but Robb's found little real rest since, and it shames him that the bloody war he's fighting has not been the only thing keeping him awake at night.

Jon moves back around, pulling the mailshirt as he goes, and though he lifts and straightens his arms to allow it Robb starts, "You're not my squire, Jon..." 

It's a feeble protest, and the look from Jon shuts him up. "No," Jon says, quiet and low, and for a second his teeth press into his bottom lip, a tiny movement that goes straight to Robb's groin. "No, I'm not." Then he kneels, and his hands are unsteady when he loosens Robb's greaves, fingers lingering over his calves. 

Robb tips his head back and lets out a long breath, trying to hold it together, to pretend this could still be something innocent, just assistance from a brother since he's dismissed his squire for the evening. He tries to pretend that he hadn't wanted to tackle Jon to the ground when he saw him ride back into camp unscathed; that it was concern or fatigue made him bow out of the festivities so soon after he saw Jon slip away from the circles of firelight. The direwolves had loped off together hours before, hunting, and Robb had envied the beasts.

Jon and Robb barely spoke during the celebrations and now Robb doesn't think they'd dared, not in front of others. Looking down at Jon now, Robb's head swims with the memory of the last time Jon was on his knees before him. A fresh wave of dizzy energy runs through Robb, his heart pounding in his chest, his cock pressing harder against his breeches, and he can't stop himself from pushing a hand into Jon's hair. "Jon," he hisses through gritted teeth, "Please..."

Jon's on his feet so quickly he almost bowls them both over, pressing his hands to Robb's face as their mouths collide. The last time was slow and luxurious, they'd savoured the taste of one another as if to memorise every inch of skin; but right now they're so frantic Robb knows Jon feels the same rush, the fight still fizzing in his blood, an intense physical need that's been simmering for hours. No wine, no whore, no collapse into sleep was going to sate it, not really. Jon shouldn't have come here, they both know it, but all the reasons why escape Robb when Jon digs his fingers into Robb's hips, when he moans into Robb's mouth at the press of his tongue.

Robb pulls Jon close and scrabbles at the buckles running up his back, but after he takes the first two Jon loses patience and pulls the ringmail off over his head. The rest of their clothes are easier, discarded with eager, careless hands, marking a haphazard trail to the pallet they collapse onto together.

Jon pins Robb's wrists at either side of his head as he moves over him, nudging Robb's legs apart to settle between them and grind his cock against him, and he still kisses Robb hard and fierce. Gods, this is what Robb needs tonight: Jon with this fire in him, so sweet to give in to. He strains in Jon's grip, though he has no intention of breaking it, remembers a sleepless night in Winterfell and rope burns that were hell to keep hidden. They both stink of the battle, sweat and blood and sour, old leather, but Robb can't get enough of it, buries his face in Jon's dark curls when Jon drags his mouth down across his jaw, his throat.

"Robb," Jon pants, lips ghosting against Robb's skin, and Robb knows how Jon likes to feel his reactions, his pulse hammering in his neck, the unsteady heave of his chest, the heat rising in his cheeks. "Gods, Robb, you're so - " Jon trails off into a wordless choking sound as Robb bucks his hips, desperate for the feel of Jon's cock, and he lifts his head to kiss Robb's lips again, hands tightening deliciously on Robb's wrists. 

"Jon," Robb manages, tilting his head and gasping for breath. "Jon, please, I want - "

Jon shifts onto an elbow, snakes the other hand down Robb's body to take hold of his cock. Robb moans, arching up into Jon's touch, and Jon's eyes are dark and wild when he says, "You want me to fuck you?" Robb squeezes his eyes closed, his free hand fisting in the furs, tells him _yes, yes, yes_. Alone in this tent for weeks he's wanted everything, twice, but tonight he needs Jon's weight on him, his cock inside him, wants it _now_ , wants it even more than he wants Jon's mouth.

Jon rocks back onto his knees, pulling Robb up with him and crushing their mouths together again before he grasps Robb's shoulders and turns him, pushing him down onto his chest on the furs. He trails hasty kisses down Robb's spine, beard scratching rough against his skin. When he reaches Robb's arse he sinks his teeth gently into the curve of his flesh, and Robb twitches up toward him, urging him on. Jon slips wet fingers between Robb's legs, rubbing and pressing, and Robb tries to relax into it despite the unbearable tension that's been gripping him.

When Jon works his fingers inside Robb bites his lip so hard he tastes blood, desperate not to spend yet, his cock aching. Jon's impatience matches his own and Robb rolls his face in the furs, seeing stars, braces his hands against the pallet and tells Jon, "I'm ready, I'm ready, just please, please..." He feels Jon's body moving over him, hot and heavy and slick with sweat, and when Jon pushes inside him, hands gripping Robb's shoulders, a guttural cry muffled against Robb's neck, Robb feels like all the air has been driven from his lungs. It's rough and stinging at first but it's still like nothing else in the world, still everything he's wanted in these weeks alone.

Jon arches his body back, holds still for a moment. Robb looks over his shoulder and Jon's face is perfect, perfect, his eyes fluttering, mouth slack, spots of bright red high on his cheeks, sweat streaking through the dirt and down the line of his throat, glistening in the lamplight. Jon sways slightly, reeling as if he might faint. Robb can hardly take it, tilts his hips, taking Jon further inside and making them both gasp. Jon takes the hint, starts to rock his hips, looking down at Robb with heavily-lidded eyes. "Gods," he laughs hoarsely, voice shaky, "I'm not going to last."

"Longer than me," Robb manages, breathless, his cock leaking onto the furs, and Jon starts to move faster, holding Robb's hips. Robb jerks against him, dimly aware that he's calling Jon's name, again and again, too late now to care that there are no stone walls here to muffle their cries.

Jon leans back, pulling Robb with him, letting him up onto all fours. Robb's arms are shaking so much he's hardly sure he can hold himself up but he pushes back against Jon's thrusts, can't do anything else. Jon's letting out small anguished noises with each breath, and Robb can feel the tremors run through Jon's body. He reaches to wrap his fingers around Robb's cock, the other hand pressed flat at the base of his spine, riding him hard now; Robb can't hold on any longer and his release courses through him, violent and exquisite, wringing high, desperate sounds up from his chest. Jon stiffens and grunts as he follows him, collapsing across Robb's back and gasping his name against his skin. 

Jon holds there for a moment, chest heaving, body twitching, until Robb has to shift because he thinks he might fall. Jon eases out of him and Robb sinks down onto the furs, not caring about the wet patch of his seed, the tension drained from him finally, his body humming with a soporific warmth. "Jon, fuck," he murmurs, rolling onto his back to look at him. 

Jon gets up to retrieve what must be the only full wineskin within a mile, legs wobbling like a newborn foal's. He sighs heavily when he slumps back next to Robb, but there's a wide grin breaking across his face. He turns to Robb and runs a hand over his stomach, takes a gulp of the wine. "I know," he says softly, happy and drowsy. 

Tomorrow Robb will be surrounded by earnest counsellors, deluged with plans and news, with arguments and empty flattery, with jostling for position. Whatever they do, they'll head further south, closer to the place that killed his grandfather and his uncle and may yet kill his father and his sisters. He'll head further out of his depth, and he'll feel less and less like himself - he'll need to, he knows, to make the decisions that will come. But tonight, a naked, worn-out mess in Jon's arms again, Robb feels like he's home. He pulls Jon down to taste the wine on his lips, and forgets about tomorrow.


End file.
